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FACT AND FANCY 



AUGUSTA REINSTEIN 



i 



Fact and Fancy 



BY 



Augusta Reinstein 




PRIVATELY PRINTED 

San Franciscc, 1895 



Copyright, 1895 

BY 

Augusta Reinstein 



The Murdock Press 



/ 



€■ •^' 



DEDICATION 



'•'■Come^ my friend^ and in the silence and the shadow wrapt apart^ 



I will loose the golden daspings of this sacred tome^ the heart. 



CONTENTS 



Childhood 7 

Motherhood 15 

Friendship 19 

Love * 25 

Men and Women 31 

Nature 37 

Art 47 

Religion 53 

Literature 59 

Music 67 

Philosophy 71 

Strength Through Struggle 77 

Fancies 83 

Facts 91 

Health 99 

Life 103 

Death 107 



"I love these little people, and it is not a slight 
thing when they, who are so fresh from God, love us." 



A BABY. 

A brow so fair, 

No trace of care, 

An angel's kiss was printed there. 

Two shell-shaped ears 

With which he hears 

The music of the other spheres. 

O'er two blue eyes 

Lids fall and rise 

To give a glimpse of Paradise. 

Two rose-bud lips 

Through which there slips 

The sweets that from life here he sips. 

Ten tiny toes , 

Help him who goes 

Over this earth of joy and woes. 

A spotless soul 

From which sins roll, 

Perfects, completes, makes up the whole. 



That is a miserable marriage, apitiable one, indeed, 
where the birth of a child is necessary to reunite a 
couple who have become estranged. 

While love must be fed by love, a loye that requires 
such stimulation insults the passion. Yet there is 
something beautiful in the fact that so unconscious 
and irresponsible a bit of being can become a peace- 
maker. 



Almost every day some trivial incident reveals to 
a lover of children a new, grand truth about child- 
nature. It is as true of children as of adults that they 
are controlled by many general rules ; it is truer, that 
the differences in the individual characters of children 
must be studied to foster the best and crush the worst 
instincts. 

The affection and aversion of children are instanta- 
neous but just. Let all who deal with them beware 
that, if the former is not soon lost when won, the 
latter is not easily dispelled if deserved. 

What an inspirer of pure thought and action is a 
sleeping child — and a dead one! 



Emerson says, "The ornament of a house is the 
friends who frequent it." So are, or should be, the 
inmates, especially the children. 

A woman who had just become a mother was asked, 
"Why, if there is a God, does he fill a woman's heart 
full to overflowing with the maternal instinct and then 
starve it dry ?" 

"You ask me, dear one, why God fills a woman's 
heart with the maternal instinct and then starves it 
dry? Who knows?" 

There are many things in our experience that are 
incomprehensible ; we must stop to reflect that we are 
but God's children, and are incapable of knowing 
what is best for us. 

The child often thinks the parent cruel because he 
is denied the enjoyment of that which to him seems 
good, but which the parent in his superior wisdom 
knows would be detrimental to his beloved child. 

There is a little bird here in my room. He is 
confined within the narrow limits of a cage, and 
sometimes, perhaps, wonders to himself why he has 
not a little mate to bear him company and some little 
ones to take care of and build a little nest for. 



Suddenly he opens his little bill and sends forth a 
most beautiful song, as if to say, "I'll be happy any- 
way; I have no time to waste in sadness. Perhaps 
some day the good Father may send me these things 
that my heart so desires; but if it is not His will, I can 
at least be happy." 

All of which is a fine bit of philosophy ; still, one 
may say, with Bartle Massey in "Adam Bede," "It 's 
easy finding reasons why other folks should be 
patient." 

Why will parents persist in telling their young chil- 
dren how often and why they should be grateful for 
the creature comforts and luxuries they provide 
them? 

The mere telling has little or no effect. It is only 
when we ourselves are able to make comparisons 
and deductions from them, that our experiences are 
forceful. 

Still, I am not in favor of taking children to hos- 
pitals, orphan asylums, or elsewhere, to see distress of 
poverty, illness, or deformity, because the impression, 
if there is one, is transient and because childhood 
should be glorious. 



I gave baby Helena "red, red rose," but first looked 
to find and take off the thorns. There were none, so 
she was like the rose, beautiful to outward view, and 
with those traits which give only pleasure, not pain. 

I wonder, baby Helen, will there always be some 
one to take the thorns from your pathway? 

On the street, there came running to me, greatly 
to my delight (when children shun me it hurts me so), 
a chubby-cheeked, dimpled child, her face framed by 
ringlets and those by a soft swan's-down-bordered 
hood. 

The small laughing eyes, healthily-pretty appear- 
ance, and happy activity, betokened her the offspring 
of a perfect marriage. 

My eyes filled with tears of envy of another 
woman's wealth and her pleasure in possessing this 
child. 

A few blocks farther, my homeward way was de- 
layed and my eyes filled with bitterer tears at the 
sight of a baby's funeral. 

I grieved at another woman's loss and the pain 
that must always remain, because she had once had 
her little one. 



"It is only through motherhood that woman attains 
the divine perfection of womanliness. Then ' the 
light that never was on sea or land ' shines from the 
windows of her soul and brightens her face with 
celestial beauty, like that of the Sistine Madonna." 



Far, far away, up in the sky, 

God sees us every day; 
But very near and just as dear. 

Our mothers watch and pray. 

I have found a Madonna that I love infinitely more 
than the Sistine. 

Dagnan Bouveret's Madonna is a tall woman, 
nunlike in face and garb. She holds her little one 
close to her breast, the little face and head against 
her own. 

The look of utter devotion on the mother's face, 
her arms, strong yet tender, twining about the tiny 
form, completely express and wholly satisfy my ideal 
of motherhood. Despite the halo, she is a Madonna 
only in the sense that every mother is such. 

The mother's dress is simple and flowing, one that 
cannot fail to be artistic. The child is swathed 
bambino-fashion. This, no doubt, is historically cor- 
rect; but a long robe would have been more artistic. 
However, in this picture as in Kray's "Lorelei," 
the upper half of the picture expresses the sentiment 
of the whole. 

Both mother and child are dressed in spotless 



17 



white, which relieves the dusky shadows of the dense 
grove. 

The Sistine Madonna, especially the child, looks 
posed to liie, while Bouveret's mother might have 
stopped as she walked along to caress her baby 
again. 

The child's face is hidden here ; the Christ-child in 
the Sistine bears resemblance to the adult Christ in 
the expression of the eyes. 

Bouveret's Madonna is beautiful — greatly beauti- 
ful to me. 

A mother should wish her children sensitive to 
that degree that the only punishment necessary for 
them for a misdeed would be the sight of the pain 
and sorrow caused thereby, expressed upon her face. 

As deep as is my love for children is my joy that I 
have brought none into the world. While it lies in 
the power of the parents to give them much happi- 
ness, greater power is Fate's to bring them misery, 
agony, sorrow, and travail. 

How much, if not all, of the pride of parenthood is 
selfish! 



i8 



"This was friendship, — to laugh the Hghter, to 
work the harder, to be gladder, to be graver." 



w- 



" There is no putting into words any feeling that has been of 
long growth with us. It is easy to say how we love new friends, 
and what we think of them, but words can never trace out all the 
fibres that knit us to the old." 

" When I called her a little Pilgrim, I do not mean 
that she was a child ; on the contrary, she was not 
even young. She was little by nature, with as little 
flesh and blood as was consistent with mortal life, 
and she was one of those who are always little for 
love. The tongue found diminutives for her, the 
heart kept her in a perpetual youth. She was so 
modest and so gentle that she always came last, so 
long as there was any one whom she could put 
before her." 

But this little body had a soul which was not little, 
and a heart which was big and great. 

We were schoolmates. She attracted me first, 
because, one day when I was ill, she came to me and 
consoled me by taking my thoughts from myself. 
"Friendship is never complete until it has been tried 
in the fire of sorrow. Mere companionship in pleasure 
is not friendship." 



We read " Lucile," and with that reading began a 
friendship which has changed only to grow stronger. 

She is small; I am large. She is frail; I am strong. 
She takes strength from me; I delicacy from her. I 
give her philosophy, the real; she sheds the glow of the 
poetical, the ideal, over my sterner nature. 

How rich one is to have one such friend. 

A B . 

" Friend to truth ! of soul sincere, 
In action faithful, and in honor clear." 

A tall, straight, athletic figure, emanating great 
physical strength, and, consistently with it, splendid 
mental and moral vigor ; the soul straight, strong, and 
sweet, like the body. 

Not strongly imbued with active sentiment and 
poetry, yet appreciating their finest ramifications in 
others. Actively helpful, as well as passively sympa- 
thetic; a quick heart for charity and a vivid personahty 
for art. 

A believer in and doer of deeds, rather than 
thoughts, yet whose beautiful deeds are inspired by 
beautiful thoughts. 



MY THREE GRACES. 

All three are slender, spirituelle-looking women, 
pretending to neither beauty nor brains, but beautiful 
in heart and mind to all who know them well, and 
wise in the ways of their little world, which is, love 
in action. 

Our friends are always beautiful to us who see the 
soul in the face and not the features forming it. 

A hard life has not robbed them of their youth or 
courage or faith ; it has only strengthened and sweet- 
ened them, and made them more appreciative of and 
grateful for the good and beauty that fall to them. 

They are good daughters, good sisters, and staunch 
friends, with such thoughtful and generous hearts and 
hands, doing ever sweet if small services to those 
about them and those they love. 

I say small services, not because they would not 
freely offer larger ones, but because they are beauti- 
fully consistent with their worldly wealth. 

Finally, they are intense lovers of nature and art 
and the beautiful in every form, whether it be of 
thought or deed, material or of the spirit. 



23 



TRANSCRIPTION OF THE CLOSING PARA- 
GRAPHS OF "AN ATTIC 
PHILOSOPHER." 

Adieu, dear friend, whom I am now to lose for a 
time. All that I have lately enjoyed must be laid to 
thee alone; for my friendship has been but a barren 
path along which I sent my sorrows, hutyours changed 
it to a flowery one in returning your sympathy and 
practical aid. 

I will think of thee often, and as often do thee 
reverence for those many hours of happiness thou 
hast permitted me to enjoy. I will repeat my thank- 
fulness for those severities thou hast showered upon 
me, as they were intended for and have reverted to 
my benefit only. 

Return again, then, in peace, and be blest, thou 
who hast made me vastly richer in experience and 
hast given me sweet memories instead of past sorrow, 
and accept, from the heart, my deep gratitude as but 
poor payment for your many good offices to Aurene. 

Auf wieder sehen. 



THE GREATEST THING IN THE 
WORLD." 



25 



The betrothal of a young girl has much the same 
effect that her death would have. It lifts her into 
temporary prominence, and is the occasion for the 
discovery of many or all of her excellent qualities, 
latent or unnoticed before. 

There is no greater sorrow than to lose our beloved 
dead, unless it is to lose the loved living. 

There is no one both so obtuse and so acute, at 
the same time, as a man in love with a woman who 
does not return his affection. 

His love makes him jealous, and therefore quick to 
see her real or fancied preference for another; his 
conceit blinds him to the truth that she cannot love 
him. 

What a different impression is produced when a 
man speaks of his affaires de coeur^ and when a woman 
mentions her conquests, as a womanly woman will, 
only " to point a moral or adorn a tale" ! 

When a man tells a woman that he has been dis- 
appointed in love, she thus learns that she does not 
hold the first place in his heart, — that she is second 
choice, if any. Even if their association does not tend 



27 



to approach such intimacy, a sensitive woman feels 
hurt at such an unnecessary and indelicate dis- 
closure. 

When a woman who is still single refers to her 
love experiences, she allows a man to think that he 
stands as good a chance as the next to win her, even 
if he has no such desire. 

There is a compliment implied in her confidence, 
the reverse in his. 

The test of true love is, not that it thinks its object 
perfect, but that it aims to make it and itself so. True 
love is not blind. 

"In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to 
thoughts of love." 

The word " lightly " should not, rightly, be applied 
to love, unless the limitation "young man" permits 
its use. 

Summer seems to be the time for love-making, as 
shown by all the summer engagements announced at 
the beginning of winter. 

It is flattering to neither a sensitive man nor woman 
to be made conscious of the fact that he or she is to a 



28 



high degree companionable, but not to the extent of 
being beloved. 

."To meet one's ideal and win, what joy ! 
To meet one's ideal and lose, ." 

" 'Tis better to have loved and lost 
Than never to have loved at all." 

If a nature is hardened and embittered by trouble, 
it is better for it to escape it. 

If a nature that needs it is sweetened and spiri- 
tualized by sorrow, it is best for it to pass through 
" cleansing fires." 



MEN AND WOMEN. 



How much more and more quickly women learn 
from their emotional experiences than men. 

Men are every bit as curious as women ; they are 
only more circumspect in concealing it. There is one 
trait they do not conceal so well or at all ; that is 
their conceit. 

Is this because they have so much it is bound to 
show itself, in manner if not in speech, or because 
women tempt its display? 

Neither sex knows the opposite so truly as its own. 

A narrow-minded woman thinks a man uncom- 
plimentary when he praises another woman in her 
presence. 

On the contrary, he is paying her one of the finest 
compliments, in implying that he thinks her so broad- 
minded that she can sincerely share his admiration. 

It is because men, as a rule, do not understand 
woman's complex nature that they misjudge them ; 
it is because women do not know men thoroughly 
that they think so well of them. 



33 



The woman who is accustomed to much attention 
from men should be the most grateful for every trifling 
courtesy ; it is the woman who is not who is exacting, 
who does not understand that every one — and a man 
especially — gives only what his feelings prompt, not 
what would be forced. 

There was a woman (forgive the libel on the sex) 
who loved a married man. This man (forgive the 
libel on the sex) excited her sympathy by confiding 
his marital unhappiness. She loved him for the dan- 
gers he had passed, and, although he encouraged 
her, after a time "He had loved her the more had 
she less loved him." Ever after she delighted in 
making men (whom she easily attracted) suffer as he 
had made her suffer. Exult, O^r^a/ heart! that no 
such feeling, or lack of feeling, ever has entered, or 
can enter. If another has hurt you, — aye, even to 
death, — it makes you only more careful not to wound 
others, for you measure the depth of their pain by 
your own. 

Life is too short, and should be too sweet, to hate 
or be hated. 



34 



It is precisely those men who have exhausted every 
vice and pleasure who seek and generally get the 
purest women for wives. Is this by reason of con- 
trast, or because their worldliness gives them charms 
to which "the weaker vessels" readily succumb? 

How can Owen Meredith, who understands woman 
so well, as his characterization of " Lucile " proves, 
say that — 

" Sorrow beautifies only the heart not the face 
Of a woman"? 
Although sorrow robs the face and the figure of 
some of their freshness and firmness, it leaves a 
spiritual beauty that far surpasses the mere fleshly. 

How beautiful a beautiful woman is. 
How godlike a great man ! 

TWO BROTHERS, 

One is tall and slender; the other shorter and 
stouter. One is deft-fingered and footed; the other 
clumsy and awkward. One is exquisitely neat in 
person and place; the other untidy and unsystematic. 

One is fond of study, with a taste for the fine arts; 



the other is indifferent to and slow in study, and quite 
oblivious of the higher things of life. 

One is persistent in purpose; the other is easily 
discouraged. If the former's love were unrequited, 
he would annoy its object till she married him for 
relief; the other, if refused, would bullet his brain. 

One has a quick mind, a shrewd head for business, 
and a faculty for saving money ; the other's brain is 
sluggish, he has no head for business, and cannot 
keep a cent. 



36 



Go forth under the open sky, and hst 
To Nature's teachings." 



THE YOSEMITE VALLEY. 

Tremendous walls of granite,— odd shapes, some- 
times rising perpendicularly, sometimes domed, some- 
times turreted, and sometimes sloping to a point, and 
always indescribably colored at dawn and at dusk. 

The power and the grace of the waterfalls, the 
thunder of their descending, and their different ways 
of falling, their edges blown into tissue-veils, sending 
the spray great distances, the sunshine sparkles on 
them, turning the drops to diamonds, the rainbows 
arching them, the colors sometimes close, compact, 
and intense, sometimes spreading broad and fine. 

The Merced River, — sometimes sailing serenely 
along, sometimes lashed into foaming rapids and 
cascades, rushing madly along before and after it 
forms the Vernal and Nevada Falls. 

Great groves of gigantic trees, beautiful cloud- 
effects, snow-clad peaks, rich undergrowth, carpets 
of wild flowers, strong sunshine, bracing mountain 
air, and mountain water, cold and crystal clear. 



39 



THE GRATEFUL PANSY. 

I nestled a brilliant pansy in the soft, dark depths 

of my fur cape, from which it showed its saucy face- 
It faded during the day, and I found it, withered 

and crumpled, on the floor at night. I threw it out of 

the window, never expecting to see it again. 

Imagine my surprise, the next morning, to find it, 

bright and beautiful once again, looking at me from 

the window-sill, where the rain had revived it to its 

pristine perfect beauty. 

Its recovery was a reproach to me, because I knew 

that pansies, no matter how dead, seemingly, are 

readily revived. 

It not only returned good for evil, but it gave me 

an additional day's delight. 

What seemed to me to be certain death for it 

proved to be only renewed life. 



A WINDOW GARDEN. 

There are glorious morning-glories that surprise 
one anew every day with their delicate coloring, and 
deliciously sweet mignonette, dressed in subdued 



40 



green, like some persons with plain faces but fine 
hearts. 

And the tendrils of the very sweet sweet-peas, 
clasping their climbing-sticks as firmly as a baby's 
fingers hold its mother's, when standing or learning 
to walk. 

When gathering flowers, those at a distance seem 
fairer than those close by ; so it is with many persons, 
always discontented with their present possessions, 
always envious of what is not in their grasp. 

In two gardens that adjoin is a scene that, every 
spring, is Chinese in its gorgeousness of coloring. 
The paths and circular edge of the fountain are 
thickly planted with hyacinths in full bloom; the long 
stalks are thickly studded with the starry blossoms of 
vivid purple and pink, light and dark-blue and pure 
white, outlined against the green of their slender 
leaves and the larger mass of green in the lawn, 
making one think — 

"That every hyacinth the garden wears 
Dropt in her lap from some once lovely head." 

If one can have a favorite flower among so many 

41 



that are so beautiful, mine is the red, red rose, the 
old-fashioned Jacqueminot. It has a glowing, warm 
color, velvety texture, sweet perfume, and perfect 
form. All these perfections are not combined in any 
other rose. 

Many new varieties are being cultivated, beautiful 
in form and color, but often so richly developed that 
their heads hang down with the overweight; but my 
rose grows erect on its stem, meeting the sun and 
the dew boldly, but not too boldly, because blushingly 
and generously exposes all the beauty that is not 
hidden in its golden heart. 

''Sometimes I think that never blows so red 
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled." 

We all admit and enjoy the beauty of form and 
coloring and the grace of trees in summer; but to me 
there is a more delicate beauty in the bare branches 
of winter, outlined against the gray sky. They make 
a net of lace as fine as tracery, sharp yet soft, bleak 
yet beautiful. 

The willow-tree especially, with its long, drooping, 
tapering twigs, descending like a shower of rain; then 
the young tender green veiling the skeleton just 

42 



enough to soften the outlines, the pale gray-green 
vivid yet soft, strength under the delicacy, spring's 
balm and beauty soothing the wonderful wounds of 
winter. 

The custom of placing marble tablets, engraved 
with the names of celebrated personages of all times 
and countries on the mammoth trees, at first seemed 
ridiculous and a desecration. 

Ridiculous, indirectly to compare the greatness 
and eternality of the one with the pettiness and per- 
ishability of the other (yet the influence of a great and 
good man is neither petty nor perishable). 

It is a desecration thus to mar the beauty and the 
grandeur of nature ; yet, in comparing the trees, their 
size, height, peculiar growth, and beauty, the tablets 
are found to be, not only a convenience but an abso- 
lute necessity for distinguishing them. 

How different robins and other small birds are 
from chickens, in one of their characteristics ! 

When a hen, or even a chick, finds a bit of bread, a 
worm, or other tempting morsel, she seizes it greedily 
and hurries to a safe place to devour it alone, but 
little birds, in and out of the nest, always agree. 



43 



many of them joining one who has found a windfall, 
if not by expressed, by implied permission, his enjoy- 
ment being increased by theirs. 

Do not these contrasting instincts find a parallel in 
human nature? 

How prettily as they fly. 

Are birds outlined 'gainst the sky ! 

Have you ever noticed how hard the little birds 
must strive against the strong western winds? On 
the avenue were some birds, busily hopping about a 
dull-colored mass, which inspection proved to be a 
bird's-nest, torn and trailing. 

Even the breeze as directed by the Higher Hand 
could not have uprooted all this past l?bor. Did the 
despoiler consider that each soft white feather, each 
twig, meant a journey even if of love, of fatigue, too, 
for the brown builders? 

Yet the homeless chirpers, undaunted at the deso- 
lation, — aye, desecration, — were cheerily trying and 
trusting again. 

May we not learn a lesson of patience from such a 
scene? 



Why are birds, who have known only the confine- 
ment of the cruel cage, excited to loud and continuous 
warbling by the sound of running water? 

Is it because they imagine themselves in the tree- 
tops above a brook? Though they have lived in the 
city only, does the inherited instinct of the woodlands 
still live? 

When passing a house that was being painted, I 
saw, in the garden, masses of straw, feathers, and 
twigs that rude, thoughtless (?), cruel, but neces- 
sary (?), hands had torn from the wood-work 
crevices, the cosy hidden nooks chosen by bird- 
instinct for safety. 

My indignation and sorrow at the devastation 
were in proportion to my inability to remedy or 
prevent it. 



ART. 



47 



In art, men like the feminine figure slender; in 
life, they prefer the larger type. In art, the model is 
always tall ; in life, the little woman is preferred. 

Many have often wondered what action gave the 
peculiar pose to the Venus of Milo. 

In a sonnet on the Venus of the Louvre, by Emma 
Lazarus, are the lines : 

"Serenely poised on her world- worshiped throne 
As when she guided once her dove-drawn car." 

The dove is one of the emblems of love, and so is 
fittingly associated, and the poise of the body, with 
one foot advanced, might well show her driving a 
chariot, the floor of which was inclined, but she 
suggests strength so strongly that one associates a 
larger and more powerful animal, if any, with "Her 
Majesty." 

There is such complete repose about the face that 
one prefers to have her wholly inactive. 

ST. MARY'S CATHEDRAL. 

One need be neither an artist nor an architect to 
notice some glaring defects in St. Mary's Cathedral, 
for they are "greatnesses thrust upon one." 



No structure that is so broken in outline can be 
stately or grand, and we demand that impression in a 
church, if anywhere. 

The red brick, with its sparse stone trimmings, is 
most unrestful to the eye. Think of it, brick for a 
church! Imitations of all kind are in bad taste, but 
brick covered with cement, to represent stone, would 
have been an improvement. 

The building and the slated roof already have a 
weather-worn appearance, equaled only by our City 
Hall. It is not "the charm, the grace that time 
makes strong." 

The appearance of age and decay is carried out in 
the back portion of the building, which looks as though 
it had sunk into the sand. 

The lack of art is again evident in the posterior 
part of the structure which is so split up as to be a 
series of sheds. 

The doors are out of all proportion to the facade 
of the church and to the expanse of steps leading to 
them. They should, at least, have been as large as 
the stone arch over them. 

The spire is neither tall nor graceful, and the jang- 
ling chimes it promises to hold are not anticipated 
with rapture by the dwellers near by. 



50 



I learn that the building is in the Romanesque style, 
but it is no relief to know it. 

The clasped hands in Amberg's " Hand in Hand" 
show the woman's faith in the man into whose keep- 
ing she has given her life, while her half-averted face, 
with its awed yet joyful expression, shows perfectly 
the modesty of maidenhood. 

Its exquisite simplicity is simply exquisite, and 
recalls the lines : 

" I cannot choose but think upon the time 
When our two lives grew like two buds that kiss 
At lightest thrill from the bee's swinging chime 
Because the one so near the other is." 

What fine, tall, strong, heroic types in Leigh ton's 
"Wedded"! What grace in the pose, and tenderness 
in the sentiment ! 

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 

The interest in the Daly performances is always 
centered in Ada Rehan and John Drew. The piece 
is absolutely dreary when they are out of sight. 



As presented by the Daly company, the play is 
most boisterous. Drew, in a pompous manner, 
boasts of his intended subjugation of Katherine, and 
from the time he carries her from her home, directly 
after their marriage, until their return, he slashes 
about the stage with a horsewhip, for all the world 
like a slave or cattle-driver. Before seeing the play, 
I had thought he gained his purpose by exerting quiet 
strength, not by brute force. 

BERNHARDT AS "CAMILLE." 

'*La Dame aux Camelias" is an emotional drama^ 
and, dealing with love, and especially an unhappy 
love, is closer to all women than the high tragedies 
she enacts; and, appealing strongly, is thoroughly 
understood. 

How many more of the finer touches of her acting 
one notices than in her other performances, — the 
hysteria, the languor of her love when its course was 
clouded, her childish happiness when it showed se- 
rene, the weakness of her ill-health, and her self-pity 
thereat, the nobility of her sacrifice, her character 
purified and ennobled by love, and the spiritualizing 
before death. 



52 



RELIGION IS NOT A REQUISITE TO MORAL 
EXCELLENCE." 



53 



Why do I, who am not religious, in the ordinary 
sense of the word, sometimes go to church? 

To enjoy the sermon as a literary treat, to feast my 
eyes upon the brilliant coloring in the stained-glass 
windows, to lose the sense of self in a large place 
and in a multitude of people, to experience anew the 
feeling of "Peace on earth, good will to men," and 
to have my soul uplifted, exalted, and purified by the 
mighty tones of the organ. 

A woman adopted a little girl who had never had 
any "religious instruction." She asked the child to 
perform some service, and when the latter refused, 
threatened to tell God of her naughtiness. There- 
upon the child screamed, and, frightened, hid herself 
in the folds of her foster-mother's gown. 

"Think of it," said the woman, "not to know 
what God is!" 

"Who does know?" one is tempted to inquire, 
until he reflects that religious discussions, like those 
of politics, oftener result in estranged feeling than 
added wisdom. 



55 



" It is a beautiful evening, calm and free, 
The holy time is quiet as a nun 
Breathless with adoration." 

Across the way is the new Cathedral. This is a 
holy week, and there have been lights and music in 
the church every night. 

Above the row of stained-glass windows is an 
immense rose-window; its kaleidoscopic colors are 
vividly outlined by its dark frame, and the whole 
structure, surmounted by the golden cross that gleams 
in the moonlight, stands in relief in the soft, pale light. 

The distant sweet strains of a stroller's harmonica 
are drowned by the stronger, sweettonesof the organ, 
which swell to a grand climax as the anthem concludes 
and the audience passes out into the perfect night, 
their hearts filled so overflowingly with peace that 
silence is their strongest speech. 



56 



MY CREED. 

I believe in the teachings of Christ, and reverence 
his name for his works. 

I believe in the Christian principles, and try to 
emulate them. 

I believe that love and right-doing are all that bring 
us happiness — love for our own and for our fellow- 
man as for our own. 

I believe that love brings, or should bring, right- 
doing, or it is not worthy the name. 

I believe that prayer is an appeal to the better 
nature within ourselves, and is not addressed to any 
power without and unseen. 

I believe in the glory and the majesty and the 
beauty of the universe, but dare not say who or what 
made it, since none know nor ever can know. 

I beheve that we are one family, and that all dis- 
tinctions — social, religious, or political — are frivo- 
lous, since death, if not life, levels all. 

I believe in the life here, and in no speculation 
about the life to come, of which none can know. 

I believe that heaven is here for all who merit it, 
and hell, too. 

I believe in fate. I am a fatalist. "'Kismet.'''' 



57 



'He ate and drank the precious words, 

His spirit grew robust: 
He knew no more that he was poor 

Nor that his frame was dust. 
He danced along the dingy days, 

And this bequest of wings 
Was but a book. What Hberty 

A loosened spirit brings ! " 



Why is it that these cold, indifferent men are the most be- 
loved ? 

— Prosper Merimee's Letters to an Incognita. 

I have thought of a reason why seemingly cold, 
reserved women are attractive to some men, but which 
reason is perhaps as incorrect as it is original. 

To minds given to keen observation, there is 
always a fascination about whatever is not under- 
stood, and a tendency to search out its meaning. 

A man dislikes to think himself resistible, and 
flatters himself that y^^ will prove the Prince Charming 
to the Sleeping Beauty. 

The same is true, but less often so, where the sexes 
are reversed. 

Let me ask the question, why women who torment men with 
jealousy, laugh contemptuously at their humble entreaties and 
fling their money to the winds, have twice the hold over their 
affections that the patient, long-suffering, domestic, frugal Gri- 
seldas have, whose existences are one long penance of unsuccess- 
ful effort to please? "An Author^s LoveV 

Is it not the old, old story of the eagerness of pur- 
suit and the discontent of satiety, the masculine de- 
sire for full power, complete control, — such as a man 
delights in exercising over his horse, a boy over his 
kite? 



6r 



George Kennan, the litterateur, who visited the 
Russian mines and prisons, to find out whether the 
reported cruelty inflicted upon the exiles is true, 
found it, if possible, blacker than it was painted. He 
has given the world the fruits of his experiences in his 
"Century" articles, and, latterly, in lectures. 

I feared to have the intensely strong impression of 
the magazine recitals weakened by hearing the lec- 
turer, because so many who write well cannot read 
their own or another's writings, but my fear was 
groundless. 

Thrown upon a screen were pictures of common 
criminals and political prisoners, banished for little or 
no cause, by "administrative process." The faces of 
the former were of the usual low, depraved type; the 
latter had refined, strong, and distinguished faces, 
were of gentle birth, educated, cultured, and rich. 

The detailed history of the injustice and cruelty to 
each, and their constant endeavor to escape it, was 
pitiful and harrowing to a degree, but it was encour- 
aging to learn of the strength of the Russian character 
in suffering. 

If this trait does not eventually right their wrongs, 
nothing else can. 



CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 

My long-time interest in Charlotte Bronte has just 
been satisfied by reading her " Life and Letters." So 
intense was my interest that I was derelict to all duty 
and oblivious of all other pleasure while so engaged, 
but her strict performance of every duty has since in- 
spired me to the accomplishment of my own. 

What affects one most forcibly is the unflagging 
persistence of purpose, the strong will in a weak 
body, and the unflinching faith in spite of deep and 
continuous sorrows. 



MAIN-TRAVELED ROADS. 

(Hamlin Garland.) 

The country atmosphere pervading these sketches 
makes a lover of nature ache to leave the city. The 
detailing is marvelous, equal in its way to Balzac (the 
literary Meissonier), but the life of the class of soci- 
ety he depicts is as great and depressing a study as 
Millet's "Man with the Hoe." 



63 



SUBSTANCE AND SHOW. 
(Thomas Starr King.) 

How delightfully instructive are his picturesque 
phrases and fine figures clothing the soul of wondrous 
thought beneath ! 

Fitting it is that, in recognition of his reverence for 
nature, he rests on the green earth surrounded by the 
daisies he stooped to lift in life. 

Their pink and white heads guard him whose soul 
symbolized the one color, living and dead, and whose 
influence rendered roseate-hued the lives of his fellow- 



THOREAU'S LETTERS. 

Thoreau's letters are the letters of a dreamer, a 
visionary, like most, if not all, of the Concord School 
of Philosophy. His theories and sentiments are highly 
ideal, yet, like some ideals, not unattainable. 

Many of his thoughts are quaint, most of them are 
original. His ideas of friendship and love are strongly 
reminiscent of Emerson. Best of all is his ceaseless 
exhortation for a simple natural hfe and for the eleva- 
tion of the soul. 



64 



PASTELS IN PROSE. 

"Pastels in Prose" are short sketches from the 
French, daintily illustrated, and prettily prefaced by 
Howells. 

They satisfy the literary, artistic, poetical, and 
musical nature, since poetry is, or should be, music. 

Many of the sketches bear a refrain hke a song ; in 
others, the same words are twisted about skillfully ; 
some are merely pretty bits of description, but most 
of them carry a delicately veiled meaning or moral. 

The imitations of the Chinese and Japanese are 
most quaint, and are thoroughly impregnated with 
the Oriental atmosphere. 

SAXE HOLM'S STORIES. 

Although " H. H." never formally acknowledged 
the authorship of these stories, they are unanimously 
conceded to be hers, for there is the same sweet, 
strong, spiritual strain in them that characterizes her 
poems ; the same high ideals, the same intensity and 
refinement of thought, feeling, and sentiment. 

They are further remarkable for the fact that both 
heroes and heroines are equally well drawn, and 
because her own deep womanliness is paramount 
throughout. 



65 



"TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES." 

I agree with the author, that "Tess of the D'Ur- 
bervilles" is the story of a pure woman. Hardy 
seems to have a penchant for having his heroines fall 
from grace early in life. This is noticeable in "A 
Group of Noble Dames " and *' Life's Little Ironies." 
Does he wish us to imply that the women of Wessex 
and other small villages are frailer than their sisters 
elsewhere? But since such accidents but too often 
befall women of the civilized world, women who are 
neither ignorant nor innocent, women who are well- 
born and bred, it can surprise no one that the igno- 
rant, innocent country lass is easily "led astray." 

For a long time I could not grant Tess's purity, 
because she returned to the lower life after finding 
Love, — Love the highest, the purest, the truest. It 
seems impossible that she could descend after living 
"on the heights," but her disheartenment at being 
discarded by her lover when she tells him the truth 
(he disappointed me deeply by forsaking her), made 
her desperate, and an undisciplined nature is ready 
for anything when in such a state. 



66 



MUSIC. 



67 



How much more impressive the music which dies 
away than that which ends in loud tones, be the tones 
even those which terminate a majestic climax ! 

One often wonders how, with all the music that 
has been written, anything, original can still be pro- 
duced, just as one wonders how, with all the millions 
of people existing, there are still such widely differing 
faces and not more and closer resemblances. 

The "Angel Chorus" from "Lohengrin" begins 
with their approach in a burst of glorious music, as 
though the heavens had opened and suddenly re- 
vealed the glorious sight; with their receding, the 
sounds soften. An occasional loud tone seems to 
proclaim the return of a spirit that has strayed from 
the band like the stragglers of a flock of birds ; their 
gradual and final disappearance is simulated by mu sic 
softening into silence. 

Walter's prize song from the " Meistersingers," 
the "Fountain," is a constantly rolling, rippling, 
ever-changing melody, like a brook that never flows 
twice over the same spot or over two places exactly 
alike. 



69 



Browning and Wagner are alike in that both have 
written much which is marvelously beautiful, and 
much which seems to be discordant, — but whether 
this is because it is but *' harmony misunderstood," 
is yet an open question. 



70 



"Nothing is trivial in life, and everything, to the 
philosopher, has a meaning." 



Seated at the breakfast-table, across which the 
sunshine streams, I am reminded, by the sudden 
flashes of shadow caused by birds intercepting 
Phcebus' beams, of the transient darknesses that cross 
our lives. Our impatience and rebellion would cease 
did we divine what compensating good, what aim for 
the beautifying of our spiritual nature these sorrows 
are intended to serve. 

"There are certain secrets taught by pain which 
are, perhaps, worth the purchase." 

After one of our visits to the German Hospital, as 

M and I sat on a bank awaiting a car, she turned 

to me, after a pregnant pause, and asked, "Is not all 
unselfishness selfishness?" 

Strange to say (yet not so, for we diVQ friends), the 
same train of thought was in my mind, and so the 
answer was ready, — "Though a personal happiness 
results from an unselfishly conceived action, that 
feeling is the result, not the motive, for the deed." 
In other words, "To be good is to be happy." 

Soon after, the same idea was found better ex- 
pressed in "Kathrina": 

73 



** If I make my happiness 
The motive for my act, I spoil it with the taint 
Of selfishness." 

When passing my ideal house, whose sweet gar- 
den-growths seem typical of the lovely life indoors, 
I heard the snowy-haired grandmother say to her 
healthily-pretty grandchild, both enjoying the early 
morning sunshine : " When I was riding to town yes- 
terday, I smelled something so sweet on my dress. 
When I looked down I saw the violets you had given 
me, and then I thought of you." 

Such appreciation and praise of a child's thought- 
fulness (or any one's) cannot fail to make considera- 
tion for others habitual. "Let us not look down 
upon the child's simple acts of generosity. It is 
these which accustom the soul to self-denial and to 
sympathy." 

Instantly M 's query came to mind: If praise re- 
verts as a consequence of a good action, the desire for 
it is not a conscious motive for the deed. 

Another day I met this child crossing a clover- 
field ; over the lot the wind blew smoke from a pile 
of burning rubbish. 



She passed through the suffocating atmosphere, 
remarking : " It 's horrible, but I don't mind it!" 

Wise, brave little one, learning thus early to endure 
unpleasant experiences without complaining. 

The earlier in life one learns to be strong, 
The easier is life found as it glides along. 

Are all sorrows sent for a purpose? Are not some 
sent through sheer hard fate? 

"I boasted that I had yet to meet with any first 
great defeat in life, — had yet to encounter that com- 
mon myth of inefficient characters, — an insurmount- 
able barrier. I boasted that I believed in no such 
thing as forces in the world that are stronger than our 
wills, and that the imperfection of our lives resulted 
from the imperfection of our own planning and doing. 
I boasted that if ideals got shattered, men did the 
shattering themselves. I boasted that I would go on 
rearing the structure of my life to the last detail, just 
as I had long conceived it. / have learned better 
since theny 

A woman had two great sorrows. Then, what 
seemed a great joy came to her as compensation, 



75 



she thought, for her suffering. It proved to be only 
another agony; so she must needs sink, bodily, be- 
neath the three trials. 

Perhaps, it is just as well that all the miseries come 
together, since a little more or less matters not, when 
one has touched the depths. There is a point beyond 
which one can suffer no more. It is there that in- 
difference begins. 

" Nothing had availed to crush him, even as noth- 
ing ever does avail to crush a man of character. But 
the obstacles and torments which make no impression 
on the mind of a strong man, often make a very sen- 
sible impression on his heart ; the mind triumphs,— 
it is the heart that suffers ; the mind strengthens and 
expands after every besetting plague of life, but the 
heart withers and wears away." 



76 



" He that wrestles with us strengthens our nerves 
and sharpens our skill. Our antagonist is our 
helper." 



"You should forgive many things in others, but 
nothing in yourself." 

This statement is selfish, in spite of its seeming 
magnanimity. By being less forgiving to ourselves, 
we exact a higher standard of conduct than we do 
from those whom we exonerate from blame readily. 
We allow them to rest content with what is less per- 
fect than could be attained by our severer judgment. 

" Count that day lost whose low descending sun 

Sees from thy hand no worthy action done." 
This is well as a daily motto, except that one is apt 
to remember what good has been done and to exag- 
gerate trifling deeds to importance. 

Substitute instead, " He who does a kindness 
should never remember it," and " Do good by stealth 
and blush to find it fame," even to one's self. 

"Animals are such agreeable friends, — they ask no 
questions, they pass no criticisms." 

Are not the sudden spring and bark of greeting, 
the scowl and growl of the dog; the purring and rub- 
bing, the spitting, scratching, and arched back of the 
cat; the fiery eye of the horse, and the approach and 



retreat of all these otherwise unlanguaged creatures 
as expressive of liking and dislike as the silent actions 
or words of approval and disapproval of human 
beings? 

"If by any device or knowledge 

The rosebud its sweetness could know, 
It would stay a rosebud forever, 
Nor unto its fullness grow. 

And if thou couldst know thy own sweeetness, 

O little one, perfect and sweet, 
Thou wouldst stay a child forever, 

Completer whilst incomplete." 

The incomplete man is necessarily imperfect, be- 
cause undeveloped. One admires less the innocence 
of ignorance than the wisdom which comes through 
being tried by fire. 

There is no strength without struggle. A negative 
goodness that has never been tempted or tried is not 
worth much. 

What mother wishes her baby to be a baby 
always? Does she not find pleasure — her very Hfe, 
in fact, now as she did before it came — in anticipating 

80 



its growth, bodily, mentally, and morally, eagerly, yet 
fearfully ? 

Undoubtedly the purity of an untried soul is ad~ 
mirable, to a degree, as Rita finds in " Flagoletta": 

"Do you know, if there is one thing irresistibly 
alluring in my eyes it is the freshness of an unspoilt 
life, — a youth with all its hopes and desires and 
dreams unsullied by knowledge of evil, unspoilt by 
contact with sin, before whom the world lies as a field 
to tread, not a burying-ground to shun, and yet it is 
the one thing we are all most anxious to lose, most 
heedless of possessing." 

An always interesting study to a keen observer 
and lover of children — love of any kind stimulates 
observation in that direction — is the sight of youth 
budding into maturity. It promises so much, and 
one is curious to learn whether the promises are 
fulfilled. 

The half-blown rose gives but a glimpse into its 
glowing heart, thus showing a delicate reserve and 
confining its sweet perfume. It, however, is not so 
beautiful as the full-blown flower, except that the 
latter invariably suggests that it must soon die. 



Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for 

seeing, 
Then beauty is its own excuse for being." 



WHAT THE SMOKE SAID. 

For some weeks I was compelled to lie abed, in 
perfect quiet, in a darkened room. I could not read 
or write or see any one but the nurse who attended 
me. 

At first I felt so weak and weary, the absolute 
rest was welcome, but as I gradually grew stronger, 
I sought some entertainment, and found it on the 
window-blind. 

The smoke from a chimney close by was blown by 
varying winds into varying shapes across it; it was 
not only a timepiece for me, but was also a measure 
of my neighbor's meals, there being more smoke at 
luncheon than at breakfast, and more at dinner than 
at luncheon. 

Not long ago a little boy was gazing intently out 
of a schoolroom window. In reply to his teacher's 
question, as to what interested him so, he exclaimed , 
"I'm sure the lady in that house has company, for 
there 's a fire in the grate." So the smoke from this 
chimney was "company" for me for many hours 
during those long days, and this is what it told me : 

At first there came a thin, indistinct, wavering line, 

85 



like the vague, uncertain, wondering movements of 
a baby. As the flakes gained in number, the air bore 
them along rapidly, so that they looked like a flock 
of flying birds, or like children racing, or like leaves 
dropping from the trees in autumn. 

At times a strong wind sent the shadows along so 
swiftly they left no distinct impression on the curtain 
or on the retina, the curtain of the eye ; these seemed 
to me Hke the impetuous actions of youth. 

The large flakes, coming regularly and rapidly, 
looked just like a flag fluttering in a stiff breeze, and 
when they came irregularly, they changed to a line of 
clothes flapping in the wind on a day in March. 

When the smoke poured out thickly from the pipe 
set into the chimney, the cylinder became the smoke- 
stack of a steamer about to set out on a voyage, 
while a small, steady stream brought the steamer 
back into port. Sometimes the pipe sent out swiftly, 
smoke and soot and cinders that made of it a cannon 
belching forth destruction or a man-of-war's friendly 
salute of welcome or farewell. 

As the smoke rolled slowly out and along in vol- 
umes, it reminded me of masses of snow, the thought 
of which cooled my hot head— or of flocks of fleecy 

86 



sheep that called to mind long stretches of flowery 
meadows and sunny hillsides that one longs for in the 
depth of winter or when a darkened hour makes 
winter indoors. 

When there was little or no wind, the smoke 
passed onward slowly, like the certain steps of mature 
life, or wdth the dignity of a courtly pageant, or with 
the majestic movements of a camel, beneath and 
around him the limitless desert of gray sand, while a 
part lifted and curled itself above him into a stately 
palm. 

When it was blown downward with force, it became 
a shower, and when denser, a downpour of rain 
blown to whiteness by a storm. Sometimes it de- 
scended very slowly and spread itself out into a fine 
tissue — a bridal veil — with dark spots here and there 
for the embroidery. 

As the fire died down, the stream grew smaller 
and smaller, in the end as it was in the beginning, 
second childhood as weak and helpless as infancy, 
until it was no more, and I, too, had passed into the 
land of shadow, to sleep. 



87 



Have you ever seen a humming-bird poised in 
air by rapid winging, dipping his needle-like bill into 
fuchsias and other bell-shaped flowers ? 
Irresistible dimples, 
An orchard in bloom, 
A fruit-tree in blossom. 
Clouds sun-tipped to silver, 
The softening effects of twilight, 
Shadow-pictures made by the fog, 
Dazzling sunrise-sparkles on the ocean, 
Brown birds on the bare branches in winter. 
The long, deep curves of skimming swallows. 
The alternating colors of a flock of flying pigeons. 
Firelight glow on faces surrounding the hearth, 
Sunlight lighting up soft hair to golden or auburn tints, 
The fascination of curves not developed into coarse- 
ness, 

A face spiritualized by temporary pain or chronic 
suffering, 

Rose-petals deepening in tint toward the heart of 
the flower, 

The iridescent burnished breast of a pigeon chang- 
ing in the sunlight, 

The picturesqueness of a snowstorm with the birds 
flying affrighted through it? 



WINTER. 

A dark, wet night ! The shifting clouds vary from 
white and gray to black, and make the sky beneath 
pitchy. Here and there a blotch of black yawns from 
its white environment; it looks like our future, the 
deep, unfathomable beyond. 

The wind through the trees sways them with a 
doleful strain ; the reflections of the street-lamps, 
lying along the ground, quiver with their fitful source 
and vanish in a point into the darkness. 

The leaves of the trees are tessellated against the 
lighted doorways and moisture-smoked window, 
panes, changing them into stained glass of an ever- 
varying pattern. 

Everything without is restlessness, save when an 
occasional church-bell sounds a momentary peace 
over all. 



We are apt to think a leaf in the calendar has been 
misplaced when we are surprised by a shower in sum- 
mer. We bear the temporary inconvenience with 
little or no complaint, because we know it will not last 
long, that the succeeding sunshine will seem all the 



brighter by contrast, and that the earth and her in- 
habitants will be cooled and refreshed by it. 

The winter rains last longer, are heavier, and 
wisely so, — for while the summer showers only bathe 
the surface, those of winter reach the seed, and 
quicken it into the flower and fruit of the queen 
season of the year. 

The light summer rains are the sorrows of child- 
hood; the winter rains, the deep sufferings of adult 
life, which, however, are diamonds in its depths, 
giving light to life. 

New Year's eve, the moon was a crescent which 
seemed wonderfully symbolic of the time. 

The small, lighted arc typifies the past, our ex- 
perience during which should be some assurance of 
our ability to combat the future. That, in turn, is 
represented by the enlightened portion, outlined by 
the thread-line of light. 



90 



" General observations drawn from particulars are 
the jewels of knowledge, comprehending great store 
in a little room." 



We are not responsible for our innate characteris- 
tics, but we are responsible for their education to good 
or their lack of cultivation to evil results. 

In correcting a fault, we generally act its extreme 
opposite, until we find the happy medium. 

How bravely we bear the wounds which consciously 
we inflict upon ourselves ; how quickly we resent those 
which come from another! 

Disfigured and deformed persons must feel as sen- 
sitive to rude staring as to persons turning from them 
in pity or repulsion. One should look at them with 
an expression which is neither too sympathetic nor 
all untouched by their ill-fated condition. 

Blessed is he and his who has the faculty of finding 
much inhttle, or the broad-minded intellect and imag- 
ination which sees something where nothing seem- 
ingly exists. 

"Those who trust us educate us." How much 
nobler the faith which uplifts than the distrust which 
degrades both itself and the suspected! 



93 



It is with traveling to far-off countries as with visiting 
distant friends. One makes an effort to get to see 
those persons and places not easily reached, thinking 
he can always "run in" to those near by. That is 
why our own country and our neighbors are so often 
neglected. 

The Autocrat S2iys, "A pun is, prima facie, an 
insult to the person you are talking with." This, of 
course, is an exaggeration, but it is no exaggeration 
to say that a voluntary apology is such. A forced 
apology should never occur. The tendency to ex- 
cessive apology is an evidence of lack of breeding. 

While we always wish to appear at our best, it is 
infinitely more complimentary to give others the 
benefit of the doubt that they do not understand the 
situation or condition for which we would present 
excuses. 

While one by no means expects or even hopes to 
find a perfect being, it is necessary to have ideals for 
the maintenance of a high standard for ourselves and 
for those whom we idealize. 

While we often thus prepare our own disappoint- 



94 



ment, we oftener, let us hope, educate those to whom 
we tactfully present the perfect type. 

One should be exacting intentionally, not to satisfy 
his own selfish and perhaps undeserved desires, but 
to present to them an ideal he thus incites them to 
attain. 

Very few persons possess the moral courage to 
receive gratefully any necessary correction, just as 
but few persons possess the strength of character 
and dehcacy of feeling requisite to acquaint another 
with his faults, misdeeds, or peculiarities, of which 
he is often unconscious. 

Indifference is, very often, only a passive hatred. 

Our self-disparagement is often as insincere as our 
compliments to others. 

The manner in which a person both presents and 
receives a gift is one of the most delicate tests of 
character. 

Have you ever noticed the opposite effects pro- 
duced by the extremes of cold and warm weather? 
Very cold weather has a chilling, contracting 



95 



influence upon a person's spirits, making his good 
nature withdraw into itself, and the sufferer conscious 
of himself only, because of his discomfort. 

Very warm weather has an expanding effect, making 
one sympathetic with the discomforts of another sim- 
ilar to his own. 

The constant wonder of a person as to what opinion 
another holds of him, especially after first acquaint- 
ance, is a stupendous conceit. Yet is not indifference 
to another's criticism conceit that is greater? It is 
unrelieved as the first is, for the former implies a 
complimentary deference to and desire for another's 
good will. 

One is as sensitive to the spirit of a book or a 
drama as to the atmosphere of physical and moral 
purity which emanates from every one, and which 
constitutes those supposed intangible subtle impres- 
sions which found our first judgments of individuals. 

Just as in the lower animal kingdom many creatures 
which are deadly to men are repulsive in appearance, 
so many a human being whose nature is unlovable, 

96 



bears unmistakable evidence of this upon the counte- 
nance, which, oftener than not, does not lie. 

Many kinds of flowers are readily revived when 
withered; grass erects itselfafter being down-trodden. 
So human strength daily recovers after exhaustion, 
and is often reclaimed from a close approach to 
death. 

It is frequently so; just as we flatter (or insult) 
ourselves that we have grown too strong or too in- 
different to be shaken by any great joy or sorrow, 
Fate sends something to show us how little we know 
ourselves or others. 

How much meaning decorations for any occasion 
have at the time ; how dead and meaningless they 
appear after the event ! 

It is never consoling to the high nature to compare 
its condition with that less fortunate than itself. It is 
the more discouraging to compare it with its ideal. 



97 



HEALTH. 



99 



When we are weak physically, Fate seems to con- 
trol us; but when we are strong, we feel that we com- 
mand our condition to a greater or less extent, if not 
altogether. 

The first duty of every individual is to be perfect 
physically; in other words, to be a good animal. The 
next duty and to others is to let them be as little con- 
scious of his being an animal as possible. 

While a nature that has become highly sensitive 
and sympathetic through physical suffering or other 
sorrow may have a sweet, softening, and soothing 
influence, too much of such association is depressing, 
since we are oftener in need of active than of passive 
enjoyment. 

The influence of such a nature does not begin to 
equal the inspiring, invigorating effect of a vigorous, 
healthy mind and body, even if the latter is not so 
deeply penetrative. 

There is only one degree of feeling well, but a 
million degrees of feeling ill. 

Healthy people are pretty; strong people are 
graceful. 



Should a perfect physique be the better able to 
withstand an indiscretion, or should it, by reason of 
its perfectness, the sooner rebel? Wherein lies its 
virtue unless it does both ? 



'Forenoon, and afternoon, and night; Forenoon, 
And afternoon, and night, — 
Forenoon, and — what ? 
The empty song repeats itself. No more? 
Yea, that is life: make this forenoon sublime, 
This afternoon a psalm, this night a prayer, 
And Time is conquered, and thy crown is won." 



103 



"A" thinks that your Fate comes to you, no mat- 
ter where you go, and even if you do not go. 

"B" beheves with Lucile that "we are our own 
fates"; that there is a great deal, if not everything, 
in one's own activity, in going forth to meet Fate, 
not waiting passively for it to come to you. 

"C" agrees with "B," adding that sometimes we 
meet not the Fates, but the Furies. 

If the mysterious one who is supposed to hold the 
book of life ofifered to show you the leaf allotted to 
you, would you eagerly read, or would you turn aside, 
content to let events take their course ? 

On the beach are to be found the skeletons of 
crabs, the limy structure crumbling to ashes under 
pressure. Is the end of our life anything greater ? 

One should deceive himself and others, where a 
noble end justifies the means. One unconsciously 
deceives himself and consciously deceives others to 
make his life and theirs happier. 

An active life does not always imply a useful life, 
for a life may be full of occupation and yet be devoid 



of all high purpose, just as one may talk much, yet 
say little of worth. 

Large natures love large life, indicating a whole- 
souled, generous disposition like their own. The 
difference between a Newfoundland dog and a black- 
and-tan exactly illustrates this. 

The one is big to burliness, warm-blooded, thick- 
coated, large-framed, and possesses all the instincts 
and desires of a healthy nature; the other is puny, 
timid, shivers with the least cold, and always asks to 
be petted and coddled. The former is self-sufficient; 
the latter dependent. 

It is very easy to be considerate and good to others 
when one is himself either very happy or very un- 
happy — in some ways. 

When one has had a stormy life and the storms 
have passed, he should be content simply to be at 
peace again, and not expect any especial happiness 
as compensation for his trials; yet how the starved 
and oppressed heart craves action through some wild 
joy and strong and steady sunshine ! 



1 06 



'HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP.' 



107 



I have been at a bridal to-day. It was the marriage 
of a spotless soul with heaven. 

The day was a perfect summer's day, just such a 
one as our "fair one with the golden locks " loved; 
even the wind had stopped in its course to do her 
reverence, that it might not touch her harshly, she 
who was so gentle to all. 

As I went in at the door, the birds sang about the 
porch as they do in the woods, that always drew her 
to them in her intense love of nature. 

Bright-hued flowers and ferns from her beloved 
Sausalito breathed sweetness and strength around 
her, — bright-hued flowers only, — for death was not 
mournful to her, who welcomed him cheerily, as a 
friend. 

Her lips spoke not, — in the climax of her happiness 
she was speechless, silent with the weight of joy, for 
her too heavy but bravely borne burden had dropped 
from her, and her wish to pass from sleep to eternal 
sleep was granted just when she wished and as she 
wished. 

But some of her last words were framed by the 

flowers; words of faith, courage, hope, love, pain, 

and joy; words which told us how to live, but also 

how to die. 

109 



Her death was a bridal, — her bridal would have 
been death. 

The prayer was short, simple, true, and impressive; 
impressive, because true ; and as she was borne 
'* Nearer My God, to Thee," we said, in a \Yhisper: 
"Take her up tenderly, 
Lift her with care ; 
Fashioned so slenderly, 
Young and so fair." 

Our Elaine. 
We left her in her white home, covered with the 
offerings oi friends, — and above, and below, and over 
all, was the heliotrope she loved so. Heliotrope for 
our Louise; like her, so sweet, and fading so soon. 

We could not bear to put her completely from 
sight just yet; but as she loved life dearly, in her 
gratitude she is glad to go back to the dust from 
whence she sprung, * wept and honored and sung,' 
" To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die." 
I have been at a bridal to-day. 

The only true monument to the dead is, deeds to 
the living. 



5EF -4 IS'IT 



